Committed

So much of life is about momentum. Take Isaac Newton’s First Law. “An object at rest remains at rest; an object in motion remains in New England unless it absolutely has to go back to its apartment.”

It made sense to Nate Colton. No need to fly across the country just to turn around and do it again a week later. He had his choice of gyms, trainers, and old friends to catch up with. Besides, the trip to Japan had awakened the travel bug.

The suite wasn’t much: a two-star hotel room, far more modest than might befit a PRIME superstar. But while Colton enjoyed the lavish surroundings of Chandler Tsonda’s private dressing room at ReV43–at least, until Justine Calvin started hitting him–he was far more comfortable in these spartan environs.

Nate sat at the desk and poked at a pre-packaged garden salad with a plastic fork. A few stray drops of water rolled down his neck, the last remnants of a post-workout shower. He popped a cherry tomato in his mouth and scrolled through his daily schedule.

Work would take the lion’s share of his time–mostly exercise and sparring, but also public appearances, autograph signings, and podcast interviews. The rest was taken up by social engagements and enjoying the city, with only a few unfilled hours reserved for whatever came up.

Ding

Like text messages from a super-cute Japanese lady.

Hey Nate! Um, so Miss Ria and I are gonna be in Providence a few days early. I thought, maybe we could get coffee? Or lunch? If you're busy, it's totally okay and I understand! Only if you're free... And you want to… Just let me know.

...followed by a string of seemingly random emojis, like some secret code whose meaning disappears the moment you’re old enough to rent a car.

Nate smiled as he typed back.

That sounds great Let me know when you get here

He immediately looked ahead to the next weekend, already making the necessary adjustments in his head.

“Thursday’s easiest. Tuesday’s OK. Wednesday…I’ll make it work, but that’s gonna blow up everything else. Hopefully nothing else comes what the HELL is that noise…”

The knocks on the door were needy, borderline rude. It was a noise that demanded Nate open the door, if only to be rid of the pesty sound. At the door was not an old friend to catch up with, nor was it the apple of his eye.

“Dude, you leave your real name at a hotel?”

Chandler Tsonda announced himself with incredulity. Nate, stunned at the unexpected and uninvited appearance of his tag partner for ReV 44, could hardly think before Tsonda sidestepped him, entering the room.

“What if I was a sicko stalker fan? You’d be deader than hell right now.” He turned towards Colton with a one-finger motion towards the Next Diamond’s nose. “Boop. And now your dead body is found by a maid, whose life is ruined, and I’m out a tag team partner—not cool to make me fight those two dickholes in a handicap match—and just look at the mess you’ve made.”

Nate Colton appeared speechless.

“My room’s always under Aristotle Demimonde, but hey, in the spirit of teamwork, if you want that road name, it’s all yours. Anyway,” the Model Citizen said, finally letting a millisecond of silence pass his lips. “You up to make some fuckin’ memories?”

“I–” he stopped, mostly because he expected Chandler to start talking again. Once he realized the Model Citizen was actually waiting for an answer, Nate tried again. “Chandler? What the hell’s going on? What are you doing here?”

“I gotta do this thing that’s only for true, blue ring rats, which certainly seems to apply to you. Plus we gotta come up with a plan for this week. I figured you’d join.”

Tsonda paced the hotel room as he talked, a little overfamiliar in Nate’s private space. This was a claustrophobic space for the two, neither friends nor enemies, to be sharing.

“Black car’s outside. I assume you’re coming unless…” Tsonda gestured to the hotel room. “...all the riveting shit in here is too exciting to turn down? Meet in the lobby in five? Oh, and, bring a piece of your past. Something you want to stay in the past.”

“I don’t even know if I have anything like that on me. Maybe if I print out a picture or something, but that’s still–”

“Figure it out. You’ll thank me later. Lobby in five, Evansville.”

Nate threw his travel bag on the bed and feverishly ransacked the pockets, looking for anything that might qualify for Chandler’s ritual.

“Give a guy some warning, man! How am I supposed to find something in five minutes?”

Or you could just tell him to fuck himself and go about your day

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought. This was obviously important to Tsonda, or he wouldn’t have reached out. Nate would just have to do his best.

After unzipping a hidden section of the bag, Nate pulled out a few paper items that had long been forgotten. “There’s gotta be something I can use,” he muttered while sifting through them. It was mostly receipts, a few business cards, some ACE paperwork he forgot to fill out, a pink sheet of paper–holy shit, is that Filmix’s hooker flyer?–and finally, a program from a dance show.

He stared at the cover, where a young blonde woman coiled her body in preparation for a flying jump. Her short blonde hair framed her dazzling smile and entrancing eyes. Nate could feel himself getting drawn in, even though it was only paper.

The memories of that time brought warmth to his heart…but it quickly turned to ice as he remembered the days that followed. The days when he trashed his personal and professional reputation, made enemies of his friends, and lashed out at the people he loved the most.

The choice was clear.

Nate folded the pink flyer and placed it in his pocket, then stuffed the other items back into the bag before joining Chandler Tsonda outside.

/~/~/~/~/

Dark tint on the windows of the black SUV obscured the high winter sun outside, and encouraged both men to stare at their phones. Only Nate Colton couldn’t, because Chandler Tsonda wouldn’t.

There was a long diatribe on, what was it, the interior decor of his dressing room? As Nate’s attention waned, he decided that Chandler was a fantastic conversationalist. As long as you liked to talk about him. And you didn’t like to talk.

“So, this thing we gotta do,” Tsonda said, changing topics. “I learned it when I was curtain jerking, from this old greybeard named Junk Dixon. It’s like a cleansing ritual or whatever. For getting off some bad mojo. Say, I dunno, just for example, you’ve lost three in a row, and you’re about to tear every fuckin’ hair from your head if you don’t find a way to unjinx yourself?”

For the first time, Nate found himself on familiar ground. “Oh yeah, I know about those. One of Dad’s friends, Joey Oktoberfest, used to–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chan interrupted. “You love your family, have fond memories of golden Midwestern fields at dusk, and are Wheaties box wholesome. That about it?”

A beat passed. Tsonda raised both hands in submission, walking back the tone that had come out more acrid than intended. “Sorry. I’m…superstitious about this ritual in the first place, outta practice at playing nice in the sandbox, and really fucking want this to work. Truce?”

“Sure,” Nate replied without any surety.

“I was gonna mess around about how the ritual involves sacrificing a pig, drink its blood. You know, because of your little Oinkman.” Tsonda felt the eyes of his tag partner on him. “But as you see, I’m being a responsible tag partner, reading the room, and not doing that. Applause break for me.”

There was no applause for Chandler, though the tension in the room lifted fractionally.

“Point is, we gotta commit whole hog—sorry sorry, I swear that one was unintentional. We gotta commit fully to the ritual. ‘Cuz I fucking hate losing, and you do too, and we’re both really goddamn good, and I absolutely hate those two pricks we’re up against. You got your piece of the past?”

“Yeah, I…I guess.” Nate reached into his pocket and pulled out a beat-up flyer on pink paper. It was so worn out, it looked like it might dissolve long before they reached the burial site.

“Spill,” Tsonda said, pointing to the relic.

Colton hesitantly turned it over to show the other side: a picture of a rather well-endowed young lady with artfully placed stars covering the Premium Exclusive Content.

Chandler grinned back and laughed. “No offense, dude, but you struck me as, like, a smooth, sexless Ken doll, not a guy making awooga noises at majestic cleavage. You sure do got some surprises behind those moony eyes, huh?”

“No!” He shouted, blushing a bright red. “That’s…they put me in a tag team with some guy for that ridiculous Survivor thing. Anyway, his manager sent us out for a night on the town–kind of a team-building exercise, I guess. He picked that up from one of the porn slappers that hang out on the Strip. When he quit PRIME about a month later, that was the only thing he left in the hotel room.”

“Damn,” Tsonda quipped, seeming slightly taken aback. “That’s some real poignant shit.” Colton’s sincerity had met Tsonda’s insincerity and, for now, won out.

“Now just because we happen to be doing some old carnie voodoo instead of going to the titty bar is not a reflection of my personal values. Just doing my job.” Tsonda nodded towards the flyer. “But I like your style there. Guy sounds like a real dumbass for bailing on you like that.”

“Never did find out what happened to him. He just…disappeared,” Nate said.

“Tag partner issues, now there’s something we got in common.” Tsonda reached inside his bomber jacket, and produced a scrap of cloth.

Chandler held out an unremarkable gold textile. As it unfolded from his hand, the gleaming piece of material revealed itself clearly: two holes for eyes, one each nose and mouth. A shimmering luchador’s mask.

“It’s a whole thing,” Tsonda said. “Was my best friend. Eclipsed me. Went half-crazy. Disappeared. Came back. I had eclipsed him. Went full crazy and tried to end my career and…I guess I ended his. Tried to make some peace with him recently, but I settled for making my own peace.”

Tsonda’s gaze wandered towards the horizon. He caught himself and shook out of the daydream.

“Before all that bullshit, Danny was El Spiffy! He wore this mask. No, he was this mask.” Tsonda looked down in his hand, and balled up his fist. “Apparently the wrestling gods aren’t satisfied with me just making peace, if my loss against Hanlon is any indication. They require burials. Casket matches, if you will. And so, Nate-O, we’re gonna give ‘em burials.”

The picture finally became clear for the Indiana native. “You mean, like, literally? Sounds…kinda cool, actually.”

“It’ll certainly be cool if it works. I want a win over that suspendered jackass. I want you to get another win over Cuck Norris. Knock those two dirtbags down a peg. Get one for the team while we’re at it.”

Tsonda shook his head at the thought of their Red Army foes. “And on a cosmic level, what those ratfuckers did to Looch can’t stand. We gotta meet violence with violence. Just because we’ve got a lick of conscience doesn’t mean we won’t grind some bones into dust, ya know?”

“Wouldn’t mind giving those two a taste of their own medicine,” Nate said. “Maybe not as much as they need, but that’s not how I do business.” As he spoke, his lip curled and his fists tensed, as if his body wasn’t in full agreement with his mouth.

“Seems like the easier path, doesn’t it?” Tsonda saw the coiled ferocity in his partner’s fists. “Being a supreme asshole like Ivan or Vickie? Nothing but ego, low blows and backstage ambushes. Tantrums instead of being a grown-up. I guess I like having a soul just fine and all, but they do make a clean case for vicious sociopathy. And as far as I can tell, they don’t miss a wink of sleep over it.”

“Can’t lie, sometimes I wish I could do that…but, it ain’t who I am. Hell, I still feel bad about accidentally kicking Jiles in the dick last year, and he deserves a lot worse.”

“Feels shiny in the moment, just dick-kicking your way through a career,” Tsonda said. He furrowed his brow.  “Speaking from experience here, as a former ne’er-do-well. That feeling is hollow, though. And it starts to hollow you out. I learned the hard way. Seems like you’ve never been anything but lawful good, though, no offense. What gives?”

“How my parents raised me, I guess. Especially Dad. He…retired around the same time I started high school, and knew I was set on following in his footsteps. So he made sure I did it the right way. Any time I took a wrong step, he was there to set me right. Absolute pain in the ass sometimes, and we used to butt heads like you wouldn’t believe. But after being in PRIME for two years, I see where he was coming from, and I’m thankful. I could have turned out a lot worse.”

“You are really America’s Nicest Boy, Colton. Hell, if our esteemed team captain can win the Uni, there’s hope that nice-ish guys finish first. At least that’s what I have to tell myself to keep from going back to my dick-kicking ways. Cheers to us,” Tsonda said, raising a fake glass. “May we be mourned by beautiful women weeping over our heroes’ caskets, and may the Ivans and Vickies of the world die, empty and alone, but for the sinking realization that their cowardly lives never filled the voids inside their black hearts.”

Colton toasted the sentiment with his own imaginary glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

“C’mon,” Tsonda said, with a wry smile. “That champagne ain’t cheap, and you’re spilling.”

/~/~/~/~/

There was nothing specifically funerary about where the SUV stopped, and the PRIME stars hopped out. It was quiet, with interruptions of birdsong, and a few unassuming walkers. Nate and Chandler looked out along the Seekonk River, the cold waters of which lapped towards Narragansett Bay.

“Here’s good,” Tsonda announced, indicating a bare patch of ground. “I know it’s downright picturesque, but the ritual doesn’t allow for burials at sea. Plus, I detest littering.”

As ever, the Model Citizen contained multitudes, and was happy discussing them. At length.

“You ready to get sacred and cast our past selves into oblivion? It’s gonna be nothing but smooth sailing—ha, nautical pun— and miraculous win streaks from here, sweetness.”

“Let’s do it,” Nate said without much conviction. The whole thing struck him as a little ridiculous…but then, was it more ridiculous than his family’s superstition about CCR?

Well…yes. That wasn’t superstition, it was fact. Not the point.

Regardless of how he felt, he could tell how important this was to Chandler. So much of wrestling, so much of life, was filled with little rituals that wouldn’t make sense to an outside observer. And who knows? Maybe it really would help.

It was quite a sight, one athleisured Adonis kneeling down with a small hand trowel, scooping out earth, dwarfed by his younger partner keeping watch.

With several ratchets of his wrist, Tsonda produced a softball-sized hole, and stood up.

“Age before beauty, I s’pose,” he said, nodding at Colton. The Model Citizen produced the gold mask again, and continued, without his typical snark. “Here you go, universe. Our offering. Here’s a scalp. Danny’s. I’ll take whatever I can get in return, and be done with it.”

He folded the mask until it was small, dropped it into the ground, and then looked at Nate. “Bring it home.”

“Nathan…” Colton began, and a cocked eyebrow from Tsonda caught his eye. “His name was Nathan too. People gave us a bunch of dumb nicknames, it was a whole thing.”

“Nathan…” he continued, “I don’t think this was ever the right path for either one of us. I know we could have gone farther if you’d stuck around… but I don’t know that either one of us would have been better off. Wherever you are, I hope you’re doing well. I…hope you found what you were looking for.”

He folded the paper a few times before tossing it in the hole. Tsonda took a knee and piled some earth back on their shared, dead pasts.

From a crouch, Chandler looked out over the water. “That was good. Earnest. Wrestling gods like sincerity. Sounds like you had a hell of an ex-girlfriend complex with that guy. Or you did, before we cleaved those two out of our memories forever and ever, amen.”

Nate chose that moment to find something very interesting out on the river to stare at. Whatever it was, it was in a direction where Chandler couldn’t see his face.

Neither of them spoke. Two swans paddled past. Further out into the river, a pack of gulls dove at something unseen. No clear answer from the universe. Sun streamed down.

Tsonda may have filled the makeshift grave, but it was Colton who filled the silence. “So…I haven’t told anyone this. After that match with Claire Merci…Bang! talked to me about working with them full-time. And then again last week, about the Saikyō Cup. It didn’t go anywhere…but, man, I thought about it. Still not sure if I made the right choice.”

“Anyone who’s made the PRIME roster thinks about it,” Tsonda replied. “We’re all Sisyphus. Plenty go the way of your…Nathan. Even I tried to get out and…well, I’m here, aren’t I? You get to my age, and the choice isn’t about greener pastures. It’s about the R-word, PRIME or hangin’ em up. And some days, hangin’ em up whispers in my ear real sweet.”

Tsonda pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked tired, looked close to his forty-eight years. “Maybe staying is just stubbornness, or a sense of loyalty to a place to call home, or fear of the unknown. I dunno. For me, it’s probably all of ‘em. But you? You’re the guy that has a real choice. And should choose to stay. PRIME needs Nate Colton. Otherwise, we get…well, you know we’re facing two of ‘em this week.”

Colton nodded, and the bitter look on his face faded a little. “I know it shouldn’t bother me like this. That’s the business, right? But it’s a matter of time before one of them flips shit and ends someone’s career, or worse.”

“You get tired of it. I do too.” Tsonda sighed wearily. “Keeping the forces of evil at bay one moral, righteous victory at a time. Bastards and barbarians at the gates, and no rest. But you do it. ‘Cuz it’s who you are. And you’re good at it. Pay ain’t so bad either. It’s not the easy fight, it’s the good fight. And when you sit down to text your…whatever she is, the thing that makes you feel like you just might be worthy of her affection, is that you keep doin’ it. And you do it where it matters most, where they expect you to heed the call. Where they need you.”

Chandler did a strange thing, then. He offered a genial pat on the back to Nate, and said: “You could be somebody who bails, somebody who looks for an easier way through all this shit. I don’t know much about you, but I know that just ain’t you. Trust me. It’s worth it.”

“I hope you’re right,” the Next Diamond sighed. He still wasn’t fully convinced, but at least felt slightly placated. Perhaps it was enough that he finally gave voice to his grievances. To speak, and be heard.

Tsonda didn’t demur. “Course I’m right, Nate. We got nothing but blue skies ahead.”

“And a pair of asses that need kicking,” Colton answered with a smile.

“Our hero gets it,” Tsonda said, mock applauding. “Reminds me of when we were heading into the Roulette at Great American Nightmare 2008. So spoiler alert, I retained the Uni, but holy shit was there drama because…”

Chandler continued, and while Nate rolled his eyes, he seemed to be in better spirits. The partners left the riverbank and returned to the car, every step putting more and more distance from where the past had been buried.

But the ghosts remained…